[img]1325|left|Alex Campbell ||no_popup[/img]Dateline Boston — A couple weeks ago I took my little charge to see Santa Claus at our local independent toy store. The girl I take care of, I’ll call her Aurora, is 4 years old. I didn’t know if she’d ever visited with Santa Claus, but her mom signed her up (it was free!), and I was in charge.
I didn’t get nervous until a few days before. I asked Mom if Aurora had a special outfit she would wear for the occasion. It took awhile, but after a little trial and error and a lot of money, an ensemble was given the stamp of approval.
The big day came. I admired the fancy attire that Aurora would wear, complete with patent leather Mary Janes and a necklace. I thought about how to do her hair. Aurora and I talked about Santa. I told her that he flies all over the world on Christmas Eve, delivering toys to all the children. She asked, “When does Santa sleep?” I told her that was a great question. She could ask Santa if she wanted to. She responded with, “I’m not going to wear the outfit!”
Hmm, a Possible Crisis
I said, “You’re feeling ambivalent about seeing Santa, aren’t you?” She said yes, because she is a precocious little girl and understands the meaning of the word. Inside my head, I told her that she was most certainly going to wear the outfit her mom went to the ends of the earth to get her. To her, I smiled and told her we would just go to the toy store and see how it went.
Somehow I managed to put the special clothes on Aurora while talking to her in a soothing voice about Santa, and Christmas, and being at the toy store. She got distracted with her own toys. As she was playing, I put pigtails in her hair. Uh-oh, the part wasn’t straight. I did it again. Ugh, they were lopsided! I tried braids. Aurora felt what I was doing, and shooed my hand away. Luckily, she got distracted again (thank you, little pig figurines made in Germany). At last I was able to give her a hairstyle I was satisfied with.
A Time to Perspire
Finally, it was time to go. We got to the store, and that’s when it hit me. We were going to see Santa! I checked in, and waited for our turn. I was sweating. I starting arranging the beads on Aurora’s necklace. I adjusted the barrette on Aurora’s hair once or twice. At last, it was our turn. Aurora walked over to Santa Claus, who had real facial hair and boots (a savvy 7-year-old, I know, can tell that the Santas in the stores are fake because they don’t wear boots). She went right over to Santa and started talking to him. Before I knew it, she was sitting in his lap, beaming! Meanwhile, I was babbling to the 20-something employee about how exciting it must be to watch all the children seeing Santa. Wasn’t it fun? I was so nervous. It was my first time taking a kid to see Santa, and she wasn’t even my kid, I was her nanny, but it feels like she’s my kid, blah blah blah. The young woman kept her cool and smiled at me as if I were the small child.
The professional photographer snapped some photos, I got some with my iPhone, and the visit was over. Just as I was getting ready to collect Aurora, Santa said, “And come on in, Mom, come take a picture!” People often mistake me for Aurora’s mom, and I’m never quite sure what to do. This time I sputtered, “Oh, well, hi. I’ll come over. I’m her nanny…” Santa said, “Well, I didn’t know, and you did the right thing by telling me. Come on and take a picture!” I was not ready for a picture with Santa. But when Santa says take a picture, you take a picture. I threw down my backpack, took off my coat, and knelt down next to this kind man. At the last minute I realized I might have worn the sweater with the stain on the front, but it was too late. I smiled like a reindeer in the headlights. I, got my picture taken with Father Christmas for the first time in thirty-four years.
We made it out of the store alive and headed home, all jazzed up. As soon as we walked in the door, Aurora spotted her favorite blanket on the floor. She collapsed on top of it, still wearing her down coat and glitter tights. She expressed how we both felt. I’m sure that visions of sugar plums danced in both our heads that night, but I’m glad that visiting Santa only happens once a year.
Ms. Vaillancourt may be contacted at snobbyblog@gmail.com
